What He Sees in the Fire
by breathofwinter
Summary: An elderly King Alistair is haunted by the love he lost. (Alistair/female warden)


**(I've had the idea for this fic for a long time but couldn't find the words until now. It broke my heart to write it, but now that it's done I can only be proud. This is my headcanon for the ending in which the warden is killed and the romanced Alistair marries Anora.)**

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Alistair looked out to Denerim's eastern fields, which were caught in the heart of yet another Fereldan winter. The winter that Zevran used to curse every night, huddled under masses of blankets in order to substitute the warmth of a lover. He remembered mocking him for it; in good fun, of course. The Antivan elf never would have let him live otherwise.

_No_, he corrected_. Zevran still would have laughed._

"You're cold," came a woman's scolding.

When Alistair turned from the tall palace window, it took him a moment to process Anora's presence there. Having been so recently lost in the past, her face did not seem to meld with the world his mind had constructed. Her hair, once golden blonde, had faded into ash. Her waist and hips had thickened. The lines of her face were deeper and plentiful, her eyes gone to stone.

"What?" he had already forgotten what she'd said.

"You are cold," she repeated; more slowly, and in annoyance, pointing at his legs.

"Oh," he mumbled. When Alistair looked down, he saw that they were trembling violently. In fact, his entire body was shivering.

"All this for a dead woman," Anora muttered as she grasped his arm and dragged him from the frigid hall into his chambers. She did not care if Alistair heard, as she did once. Those days of forced sympathy were long since vanished.

In truth, these occurrences had only increased as of late. Too often, Anora would hear of a guard or palace servant finding her husband standing in some bitter corner with a window, shaking like a branch in a gale. He would be gazing off as though he preferred himself a ghost to a king. It was worse when she found him herself. She was never what he needed. At the very least a servant would show him reverence, even kindness. Anora had lost her capacity for gentleness. Worse, she had abandoned it.

_Why must you make me hate you?_, she thought as she sat him down at the foot of his bed, in front of the roaring fire he always took so much care to avoid. _Maker, we never even had a chance. _

For once he looked straight at her as he whispered a meaningless, "Thank you."

Anora left him then; without a response and utterly alone. Her footfalls, a tender padding, sounded from down the hall until they faded into a silence as vicious as it was serene.

Alistair glanced about his chambers, attempting to ignore the warmth emanating from the flames before him. As he did so, a flicker of movement caught his eye. When he tracked it, he found himself staring at his own reflection in a mirror situated on a dark, polished wood desk. His image held nothing of the handsome youth he knew he once was (for she had often told him so). He was so thin, so pale, his beard grey and unkempt. Fifty years had passed him by.

His eyelids fell shut.

_"What do you see in the fire?" Anora had demanded of him once, many years ago. This moment he was able to recall with perfect clarity. She was screaming. "What is there that pulls you away from me? From Ferelden?"_

_She hurled a tankard at the wall. Made of strong metal, it did not break, but the clang made when it hit had robbed Alistair of his breath. He'd sworn for a moment that his heart stopped beating._

He turned his face away from the mirror, and at last lifted his gaze to the dancing flames.

His beloved warden's eyes met his.

Suddenly he was sitting in the heart of the unforgiving Fereldan wilderness, fifty years younger. She sat directly across from him, the glow from the fire lighting up her smiling features like magic. The entire camp seemed alight with her laughter.

"Impossible," Alistair breathed, leaning closer. "You died in my arms. I spoke over your corpse. I was left here to die a slower death."

The beautiful warden shook her head. A slight breeze played with the loose wisps of her hair. It nearly killed him.

"I never left," she assured. "Never."

A wet log shifted, causing a puff of black smoke to rise. It curled and vanished as if it were the breath of a demon. Alistair flinched.

He lifted his hands to shield his vision from the light spray of embers, but some managed to fight through his defenses. He cried out, his sight swimming. He rubbed at his eyes frantically in an attempt to soothe the searing pain.

"My love," he began to sob, "My heart."

The tears had earnestly begun to cleanse their source and only then could Alistair search desperately within the flames.

The warden was gone.

And the room had grown far colder than the hall.


End file.
